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Satori in a Yaris We drank until closing again last night, then, unable to get a room, discussed Kerouac and Plath before deciding to sleep in the car. But we didn’t sleep. We couldn’t. We talked and laughed; one of us cried and the other knew how not to. Jesus Christ, it was fun. It was strange. It was eight hours side by side, at last. Yet we didn’t touch. Not once. Not like that. We didn’t touch. She didn’t even let me buy her breakfast. Complications She has eyes that let everything in and everything out and I could not resist. It began with conversations behind the cupped left hand, heavy with the burden of that thin gold band. Balancing the books of anniversary gifts and nursery fees against hotel bills and secret suppers, late nights that must not impinge on civilised Sunday mornings when I kiss my kids on the face with the same lips that only an hour before were slurping on breasts that are not their mother’s. I chastise myself, alone now, without either of my old lovers. Us, Separated ‘Come in for a cuppa?’ I ask, delighted when she says she will. I let the tea stew for longer than she likes, knowing it will mean more time. While she drinks it, I want to ask her to remember, during all of this, that I am loving her and – she loved me too, once. Afterwards, when she’s gone again, I’m glad I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask, because the awkward pity in her eyes – that used to see me – and in her words – that used to tell me – would surely have been too much. Christopher P. Mooney was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1978. At various times in his life he has been a paperboy, a trolley boy, a greengrocer, a supermarket cashier, a shelf stacker, a barman, a cinema usher, a carpet fitter's labourer, a leaflet distributor, a foreign-language assistant and a teacher. He currently lives and writes in someone else's small flat near London and his debut collection of short fiction, Whisky for Breakfast, is available now from Bridge House Publishing.

I always found it funny that Rogue’s skin held so much power that her touch could take you whole knock you out suck you dry The thought is dizzying: the treasures that could course through that gate the world a super-charged buffet unlimited if you don’t show some restraint if it doesn’t drive you mad if you only reach out and touch My skin, my skin is something else my skin has drawn only eyes, only hands over the years at parties, in bars, offices and trains so many trespasses on that terrain My smile stayed frozen in the corner they drained a spark that was never theirs to take But listen, mister you don’t need super-senses, mutant powers to tell a change is coming the grey streak in my hair a sign as clear as lightning, if you know how to see One day, soon I’ll walk down the street ungloved, crackling you'll cross the road to greet me and I’ll hold out my hand Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. She has work published in places including Emerge Literary Journal, Selcouth Station and The Bear Creek Gazette. Find her online at voidskrawl.uk and on twitter @voidskrawl.

Rien de rien You now believe you know me. You send letters laced with praise, stories about your good daughter. But I remember I was like the girls you hated/ a flirt/ crazy cause you were his birth the only good thing I did with my life/ not-wanting-to -live a provocation Between the strokes, true to form, a void between abject and accusing I´m all but nothing like you, a reminder of words conveniently forgotten, no fight worth fighting anymore Signed this truce three years ago, cradled my sorrows, absorbed all truths crossing my path I have birdsong now, gentleness, unshrinking violets and warmth, wild snouts digging for traces of Jerusalem Alice She was five back then, red-haired and freckly, a wild girl who bit into the lids of yoghurt pots with sharp teeth, didn´t want to comb her hair, didn´t want to go to bed, could scowl with the best of them, a tiny rebel with a cause. So when she was allowed to choose her first pair of shoes, no questions asked, she didn´t choose the Mary-Janes, the dainty red sandals, the pink lacquered pointy- toes. She chose Doc Marten boots, black, laced up her wiry legs and stomped through the house and through life with brazen delight at what it had to offer. I still know her. She is a grown woman now. Forever that hair though, those freckles, the spark of those boots. Annick Yerem is a Scottish/German poet who lives and works in Berlin. Annick tweets @missyerem and has been published, among other places, by RiverMouthReview, Anti-Heroin-Chic, Rejection Letters, 192, Eat The Storms podcast, Green Ink Poetry, Open Collab, Sledgehammer Lit and The Dirigible Balloon. She is currently working on her first chapbook (Hedgehog Press, 2022), St.Eisenberg& The Sunshine Bus.

Sweet Corn You were tough as beetroot, cracked skin and bloodstains, seeped through my guts until my waste was only you. I was loose Russian sand, smooth and curved, packed with holes for you to fill. You punctured my youth, your growth my hope— I needed you to save me. When they grasped you from our plot, left me empty and alone to recon with your truth, I did not know how. It was you who dug my holes, flattened each bend of my hillock body. I know this now—I am tough as corn, too high in sweetness for excessive consumption, each kernel its own full life. Memory Is a Broken Disguise My body remembers what my mind does not, twitches the remnants of the eight years since I left you out of itself. The brain scan calls me perfect, but the bruise on my temple from the last time gravity played God with my balance says otherwise. Though my memory can’t carry your weight alone, my body has always been too weak to save me. As my heart chases your ghost beyond the realm of the living, my breath flees my chest in hopes of escaping your pull. I want to forget the muscles in your hands, the scrape of your beard against my tender skin. I’m gone now, but so are you. You’ll always be with me. My Father Is a Human Curse My brother calls it The DiFonzo Rage, says he wouldn’t be on his deathbed had our father’s ghost not lured him there. The nurse gives him five more years of Rx cocktails, and I wonder if that’s longer than he’d hoped for. At fifty-four, he’s outgrown our family despite his own best efforts— the lack of shock his daughter felt when she found him unconscious, pool of empty bottles around his head; his promise never to speak to me again after men who kill for a living conspired to save his life. I, too, have felt the pull of this curse, have forced a nurse to summon those men, catch the pulse dripped from my arms as I gazed in the mirror, its cracked surface the same shape as the razor in my hand. When asked why, I said, it’s just who I am. It was a lie I didn’t mean to tell. I have not divorced myself from my father’s pain, his parents’ failures still alive in my own nightmares. So echo this a prayer. Give me the strength to find myself alone.

CW: references to violence Cheap Beer, Madden and Hold ‘em How would I have known there was so much more, just a kid with a 30 rack of Keystone or maybe some Bud Lights on a good night? Too many hours singing the wrong lyrics to Counting Crows or Nickelback. “Pass me a bottle, Mr. Welling” wasn’t quite Mr. Jones, but we were always “down with hanging out those afternoons” nights, or whenever for that matter. English papers by an English major busted out in an hour behind locked doors as we alternated games on a Madden franchise. Back in ’09, who would have thought the Browns could have been so good? Online poker with fake money and funky avatars and overdrawn bank accounts at Best Western tables across from architects and lawyers who wouldn’t miss the money anyways. How would I have known there was so much more? Trading cheap beer, endless hours of video games and half remembered hold ‘em hands for promises slid onto fingers in glowing afternoon light, endless giggles and smiles through dirty diapers, big moments and small ones; photos carefully placed in an album to look at again and again. Active Shooter 101 They always tell teachers to leave room for silence-time to think-but what happens when the silence is brought on by the buzz of bullets, shattering time? Writing utensils and classroom tools normally used for learning and creating turn to weapons: is that pencil sharp enough or can we throw that chair hard enough to make the violence stop? What if the only thing a student learned in school today is what blood smells like or what shells falling to the ground sound like? When did attendance at school put you on the front lines of war? One Too Many Cocktails After one too many cocktails, my mind drifts not minutes or hours away, but days and weeks-buried in a fog or swirling like the churning ocean after a storm. One moment bleeding into the next, a dizzying suggestion, prompt from my gut to move, push forward, searching and galloping to find the porcelain shrine to submit my offering. When in an instant it bursts from me like confetti across clothes, furniture and the room, nothing untouched and I want to fade as far away as my mind in that moment, sink into the furniture and disappear like the rainbow of dinner and drink was already doing. Matt McGuirk teaches and lives with his family in New Hampshire. BOTN 2021 nominee with words in 50+ lit mags, 100+ accepted pieces and a debut collection with Alien Buddha Press called Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities available on Amazon and linked on his website http://linktr.ee/McGuirkMatthew Twitter: @McguirkMatthew Instagram: @mcguirk_matthew.

Tuesdays in February Distracted, I stare blankly out the window- The frosted glass obscures The view I'm not even looking at. People pass by, their own lives busying them, Lock-step with their distractions Not looking in at me looking out. Heads down, hands shoved angrily in pockets Filled with coins and tissues and their own business Which I know nothing about. I dream of their lives, are they better than mine? What drives them through the streets? What lunchtime errands make them brave the elements On a cold Tuesday in February? Lost among my wonderings, I conjure myriad Scenarios of spies and assassins, and tradesmen and ladies-in-waiting. Of lives of others, with jet-setting and expense accounts, and poverty-stricken urchins begging for scraps. The world passes by my window, and every step a story, and Every bowed head no more than a collection of memories. Why do storms have names? Why do storms have names? Why do we need to personalise them? To make them our friends? They blow in...and blow us away. They uproot our trees and capsize our trampolines And knock down our wheelie bins They are not our friends When they blow our cars off course and The trees land in our living rooms And in our roads on our way to work. Dudley and Eunice and Franklin Came round this week like visitors round for tea. I haven't had this many people round for two years. Huffing and puffing and trying to blow the house down But the last couple of years Have given my house of straw a bricked-up base And I weather these storms And their names. Council Estates Building sites and welfare checks Put a fiver in the lecky Jumpers for goalposts Tyre swings on the big oak tree Stinging nettles and docking leaves Bee stings and a dab of vinegar Shinning up the lampposts Scraped knees and torn jeans Out too late sitting on kerbs Conversations long forgotten Curfews were 'when it gets dark' And mornings were lazily slept through. Sean Smith is a writer & poet from County Derry, and is currently finishing a degree in English Lit from University of Ulster after a 20 year absence. He spends entirely too much time shouting at the TV when Liverpool are playing and reading crime novels when he should be writing.

The Balloon Artist For many years, I was a clown traveling and performing with an infamous circus company. I enjoyed sparking smiles and laughs. However, as the years passed, the audiences became bigger and my connection with the show guests became smaller. So, I left the circus life to perform at children's birthday parties and the occasional adult birthday party. While working at birthday parties, I unexpectedly discovered my hidden talent: amusing children and adults alike with my carefully crafted balloon art. I brought to life the impossible: lush landscapes, gorgeous galaxies, and fantastical dreamscapes. The news of my balloon art masterpieces slowly drifted, like one of my lofty balloons, into the ears of people. People watched with wonder while I created my balloon art. In turn, I loved sneaking peeks at people’s smiles. I felt as ethereal as my creations. So, I stopped clowning around and became a balloon artist. I opened my balloon art gallery. From time to time, I travel around the world, showcasing my new balloon art creations and meeting other balloon art enthusiasts. To this day, many of my friends and family think I am full of hot air when I passionately talk about balloon art. They’re wrong. I am full of fiery passion. The Farmer and the Alien One day a farmer was struggling to sow seeds by himself. It had been a rough year for growing crops, and a rough year in general. He lost loved ones to an unexpected and awful plague. He was a lone survivor. As he was planting seeds and seeking a miracle, an alien spaceship landed on his farm. The farmer stood shell-shocked as the spaceship’s door slowly opened. An alien emerged and they were badly injured. Without hesitation, the farmer ran to the alien and helped the alien back to the farmer’s house. The farmer patched the alien’s wounds as best as he humanly could. The alien grinned with gratitude at the farmer, and then returned to their spaceship. As the alien’s spaceship departed, the farmer’s land was instantly populated with ready-to-harvest vegetables, fruits, and grains galore. The farmer uncontrollably wept. He frantically waved goodbye to the stranger-turned-savior in the sky. He believed. Oh, how he believed.

I was part of the joke as soon as I arrived: Nerve Rat had just gone big with their second album, Edge of Rain, and been on a world tour of all the dive bars in the world when they returned to Portland and rented—I wouldn't call it a mansion, but a big fucking house down in Oregon City overlooking the Willamette River, with three stories, including The Rat's Nest, which, since the house was set into a hill, was just a big basement that opened out in back to the lawn and river. They immediately had problems with hangers-on, groupies and randos in the house, all the time, at all hours, and shit getting stolen, so at a band meeting they decided to only allow authorized people most of the week, with Unauthorized Nights on weekends. That is, parties. And, only Authorized Girls—that is, girlfriends—were allowed to be (live) there the rest of the time. So, six of us. I was the Authorized Girl of Kant, the drummer. I gave them all philosopher nicknames because I was just finishing up a BA in philosophy at PSU and it amused me. Kant I guess because he was a drummer, was very logical, or tried to give the appearance of being so. The rhythm thing, I guess. The steady logical flow of rhythms. Aristotle was the bass player—he talked a lot and wasn't very interesting, though I got along with his Authorized Girl, Iris, a waif of eighteen, and they had been seeing each other for two years and Aristotle was twenty-four. Iris was a nerd, a gamer and cosplayer and all that, and she'd had three years of french in high school so we could have joke conversations like, —Ça va? —Oui! Ça va bien! —Qu'est que tu fais? —Rien! Et tu? —Rien! And everyone would look all impressed. And we would laugh to ourselves in a french way. Because we, the Authorized Girls, actually really didn't do anything there. Just fuck, eat pizza, and listen to the band rehearse down in The Rat’s Nest. I'd wash the dishes and the nearest bathroom to keep it from total filth. I could cook basic meals, like scrambled eggs. And spaghetti. I can still boil a mean pot of noodles. Sometimes at night (we were all nocturnal) I would wander down to the cliff edge over the river and watch the water and the lights from the other houses and wonder what people did with their lives that they could actually buy houses like that. Probably nothing good. I'd read in our room if Kant wasn't around. I never told him I was a philosophy major. He would have freaked the fuck out. I never told anybody in that crowd—men get scared when they think a woman is smarter than them. That's why I never dated anyone in my department, even if I had wanted to, which I didn't because they were all, like, on the spectrum. Nice guys mostly, but not good around women. They would have loved Iris. The singer/songwriter/guitarist I nicknamed Nietzsche, because he had that earnest madness and, when I delved into his lyrics I felt like he had the one-liner aphorism and also a mockingness, mockingbirdness, towards christianity and societal morality. I had never listened to Nerve Rat before I met Kant. I am, or was, more of an americana gal: Joni Mitchell to Gillian Welch, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, and even a little bit country with some good ole cheesy (artists-formerly-known-as) The Dixie Chicks if I was in the mood. I met Kant at a party down off of Morrison, near the bridge. We were both along as friends of someone invited to the party. He was like, yeah, I'm in a band and I was like, Oh really, that's interesting—visions of some high school garage band I'd seen play back in Ann Arbor in high school. But, he was ruggedly handsome with his trimmed black beard (only in Portland were young dudes sporting beards in the 90s)(maybe Seattle too). And he had some ripping arms—not huge, but lean like a primal hunter. So I gave him my number and while he went into the kitchen to hit the keg, my girlfriend's friend, Tia, came over and whispered, —Do you know who that is?! So then I had to go home with him. Which was the first time I was at The Rat House, which felt creepy when we got there because we were the only ones, at least at first. I met Aristotle and Iris the next morning and we all had scrambled eggs and toast. Which I made. I can also make toast. Kant was even good in bed—he licked my pussy and liked me on top, which is where I really can come hard. And, a very decent cock. Plus he was funny and a little charming. I did let slip that I was in college and I could see his eyes grow wide with fear, so when he asked my major, I fluttered my lashes and said, —Communications. I didn't move into The Rat House as an Authorized Girl until the end of winter quarter—so, end of March—after about a month of us 'dating'. That is, fucking. But when he asked if I wanted to move in, I of course said yes, and wrote off spring quarter—what woman wouldn't? Which began my research into Nerve Rat. Like I said, I wasn't into grunge, so I focused in on the texts, the lyrics, as a way to find a connection. I even printed them all up, one song to a page, and put both albums together, stapled with underlines and marginalia. Which I guess sounds kind of stalky now. Nietzsche did all the songwriting, lyrics and main music 'riffs' and chords, though they as a band had an agreement that all three shared songwriting credits. Which wasn't fair: After a summer of observation, I could tell Nietzsche was the driving force of the band. Kant I grew to appreciate and, later, musician friends would tell me that he was good a good drummer. But the lyrics were what made Nerve Rat Nerve Rat. They were actually probably less like Nietzsche and more like some french poet like Baudelaire, but the name had already stuck, in my mind. Nietzsche was short and scruffy—he never seemed to shave but always had a two or three day stubble. Brown with some dark reddish strips. He mumbled when he talked. He even mumbled when he sang. I may be the only one to know what he was actually singing. I'm not sure he was a guitar god or anything. If he was noodling around, it was usually with his sound effects pedals, making his guitar sound weird, though I always felt their actual songs just sounded either what was called 'clean' (no distortion) or 'dirty' (with distortion) and mostly with distortion. It was like the weird sounds invited him to try weird chords. Or, weird lyrics too maybe. So, suddenly I was in the band family. Not a groupie—I became clear on the status of groupies versus Authorized Girls when Nerve Rat did shows in Portland and Seattle that summer, even though the record company wanted them to have a new album recorded before fall. It was all new and wild and all I had to do was amuse Kant. I mean, I liked him. I think he loved me, for some reason. He said he'd never really talked to a woman like me before. Which is odd. Maybe he never tried. He was twenty-five, had grown up in Salem, the state capital to the south of Portland, quiet and small—and had hardly ever been out of the northwest, out of the Willamette Valley, when they were suddenly touring Europe. I've been avoiding her, but Nietzsche's Authorized Girl, Hélène, was the sixth. I will say that I did not like her. And the feeling was mutual. Though she didn't seem to like anybody, not even the people in her band, The White Holes. She mocked them all the time at The Rat House. She too was a singer-songwriter-guitarist and latched onto Nietzsche after Nerve Rat's first album, Bubblebumbagoo (actually I guess it's an EP—not a full album, five songs) after it did well, though they'd known each other in the Portland music scene. She was my age and it was clear, to me and just about everyone, that she wanted to be a rock star. Which is great. Was great. But she would constantly demand that Nietzsche get his agent to come see The White Holes, or to talk to his rep at the record company, Middle I. And poor Nietzsche would kindly nod and mumble something. I swear he even said, —Yes dear. I don't know if he ever did those things. But, he loved her—she was full of energy, and even funny, and took care of him—got him to eat vegetarian and bought decent clothes for him, even though he was known for his jeans-and-flannel look. He told me once that he missed shopping at Goodwill: —You know, and you find something cool, some treasure that only works for you, and it comes from some stranger, but there's a connection! It's rad, dude. So sometimes the three of us Authorized Girls would sit up in the living room and get high and laugh and make popcorn (I do it all) while the guys rehearsed. I had learned quickly that watching a band rehearse gets old quick. But, if the band was rehearsing, you heard them anyways: they were LOUD. The whole house vibrated. And no one ever called the cops. Even the houses across the river had to have heard. As long as us three Authorized Girls were together, we could have fun, though Hélène was mean to Iris—kind of passive-aggressive, and talked smack when she wasn't around. Which of course she must have been doing with me. But poor Iris was the youngster, the 'young lass,' and was, I think, in love with Hélène and/or her glamour. And Hélène was glamorous—in a trashy way: Cleopatra eye-liner with fishnets and a brand new men's leather jacket, or green tights and a leopard-skin coat, and her hair color changed weekly. I saw The White Holes play a few times at Dante's, and they were good. She was good. They weren't great, and she wasn't a great guitar player or singer, but she had that charisma, that presence on stage where everyone in the club watched her. I never thought her lyrics, that I could understand, were that great. She kept notebooks, and scribbled, but I never saw what. I don't think she ever read that much though—she looked in Kant and I's room one time and said in her sneer voice, —Wow, that's a lot of books. What are you, a bookworm? And there were like, three. Three books on my side of the bed. In college, now even, I'd have five to seven. Nietzsche had read a lot earlier in life, I think, when he was a quiet nerd (so I picture him) before he became cool. Or, maybe he was an idiot savant. I never got to really talk to him since fucking Hélène wouldn't let me anywhere near him. If I even asked him to teach me a guitar chord she'd screech in like a harpy and physically place herself between us. Again, she did this with everyone, especially other women, but I felt like there was a personal extra distrust of me. Not like I liked Nietzsche. He was cute in a just-woke-up-with-a-hangover way, but Kant was the handsome one. (Aristotle was just kind of tall short-haired dork.) I just thought Nietzsche was interesting. And I wished he would have stood up to her a bit. Ok, I could have been a way better girlfriend to him. Ok, I liked him. I did not last long as an Authorized Girl. All it took was an Unauthorized Night at The Rat House and finding Kant in one of the extra rooms getting a blowjob from a lowly groupie for me to get the hell out. I suppose the super ability of wives and girlfriends of famous musicians is to put up with the outside sex, and today I even might be ok with it as long as I got to play around too. I certainly had offers that summer. I guess Kant did too. The bastard. The ripped amusing bastard. So I wasn't there at The Rat House for Nietzsche's suicide-by-jumping-off-the-cliff-into-the-river. Nor for the investigation about whether it actually was a suicide: Hélène was the only one at The House with him at the time. I’ve heard the 911 call, and how calm she was when reporting it. The police never called me—Kant had a acquired a new Authorized Girl by then. I was never even interviewed for the documentary five or six years later. What would I have said. Kant went on to form another band, with decent success. I've never talked to him again. Hélène's band got signed, did two albums, to minor success. She 'became' an actor, was in some Coen Brothers movie, one of the serious ones, and last I heard, married some record exec and lives in LA now. I ran into Iris about five years later, at Powell's. We laughed. We hugged. We said, Ça va? She had been at The Rat House until the end. I said, did Hélène do it or not? Iris said she didn't know. She left Aristotle after Nietzsche's death and went on to college, to study art at the PNCA and, amazingly, went on to write and illustrate a couple of well-known graphic novels—one adapted into a movie—about her childhood. She said she was going to do one about that time, our time, called The Authorized Girl Experience. Which sounds like a good name for a band. Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe lives in northwestern Colorado. He has worked as a wildland firefighter, wilderness ranger and fire lookout. Best of the Net nominee. Notable Essay List for Best American Essays 2021. @thejohnyohe www.johnyohe.com

To a Photograph of Someone I Don't Know Named Orene Orene your name makes me want to sit down at an oilcloth covered table and eat buttered grits. It makes me want to climb out the window at midnight and elope with a man named Jasper Sam. Your name makes me want to hop a freight and sing out of tune in the cold. Orene. I want to move into your name. That O is a big round door, r is the walking stick in the elephant's foot just inside and ene is the scene the linoleum on the floor the cabbage rose wallpaper I want to live there, Orene, where it's quiet, like it's quiet inside your name, Orene, unpopulated, invisible, long gone. Sweet as breakfast frying in a skillet sweet as rain on the still dark roof. Recipe For Losing One thing I know about this street: it's not the sea. Whish of rain silences the weaponized light. It's a singular feeling, a lonely thing to not know the hour or what the day might bring if it comes. They always told me there was magic here and I think what magic there might have been stole any reality I had left. Walking forgets how. Even breathing wearies. Loss has no corners. There's no place to sit down. Kyla Houbolt currently occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020. More about them on her website, https://www.kylahoubolt.com/. Her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree: https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

Hedone I take pleasure in telling the truth, in not telling all the truth, in not telling lies, in hiding so everyone can have a good look at me. I take pleasure in biding my time. I take pleasure —and you know that— in swimming, sometimes in drowning too. I take pleasure, yes, in feeling pain all over my body, in crunching it for the wonder of my full conscience. Yes, I take pleasure in myself, my aloneness, but I take pleasure in being shared too, and I take pleasure in licking the velvety skin of the sweet fruit, but in bitter things, salty and acid too. The Cruise I walk down the corridors of my Ship as it cruises through the Night and Witches are sole witness to my nakedness from behind the clouds–– sometimes I peep from these portholes, they stare back and make eye contact: their emerald-green and chrome-yellow eyes! I fearlessly cruise this Expanse in the endless Night on my Craft. I walk up and I walk down and I walk along the paths of this cruising Ship. Little Beast Upside Down she’s wild untouchable she’s rabid she won’t compromise and she isn’t to be fed she’s here for the Winter only upside down furry and fiery she’s the One not the Nereid —far out of your depth— but the Lamia she’ll suck your blood capsize your life touch her the World will freeze Joan García Viltró is a teacher and emergent poet based in Cambrils (south Catalan coast). His poems reflect Mediterranean characters and mythologies, also Nature under human pressure; a few have appeared in online journals (linktr.ee/joangv). He curates a Twitter list (Poetry Matters) and posts and reads poems aloud on Instagram.

You’ve been here before. The sea nips at your toes, the sand cool after so much walking that your shoes have almost shredded away and your fine dress – its pearled train draping – finally in tatters. Exhale deeply. Wading out to the shallows, you find yourself singing obscenities so loud that the morning gulls and seals look up in surprise. The singing is new, a smooth-polished shell, reaching for blue skies and skidding clouds, and you revel in its clarion call. You're discarding your carapace – emerging true. You’ve been here so many times. There used to be such creasing laughter that time ebbed and flowed from day to twilight to night. You circled each other into every dawn, repeating old conversations, morphing from raised voices into screaming into threats and then apologies and hugs and tears and sobbing. You know each grain of sand here by name and shape now. Each one bounced against its neighbour, spilling secrets and crashing parties over and over again. This place is sacred, from when it was a new experience: now familiar, comforting, full of memories. No break-ups here, in the turquoise waters, only feelings of love and warmth, hugs held, eternal kisses enticed. There has to be a first for all things, you suppose. The slender arms of an octopus tickle your toes before billowing away, your decision this morning none of his. They baked your favourite cake – a sponge with raspberry jam and decadent ganache – flooding it with candles. So many candles you ran out of breath, and everyone laughed, you included. They paid for this holiday; the villa flowing out over the bay, the golden sand and sea-green waters far below. There were presents, but you couldn’t open more than the one, wearing the shoes you are still expected to fill. There was a five-course meal, a personal chef in the kitchen, a waiter to dole out champagne and drinks, and your feet aching from those diamond heels – gorgeous, sharp, uncompromising. You realised your nails have become too polished. This was not how your story started. You still love the people they used to be, how you used to be with them. But they’re not good for you now. There was talk of change, but nothing happened. And anyway, a cake cannot be eaten twice. You’d chew only air and spoiled decorations, stomach griping. You leave the shoes on the shore, let your toes curl in damp, claggy sand, the morning sun warm on your back. The water laps at your feet. Your prints will wash away. You waited until the drinks were past flowing, claimed a slight headache, packed a rucksack. Walked away from the money and bite marks. You’ve a little squirreled away, enough for a plot of land. Time to get the dirt and grime back under your nails. You’ve been here before, but you’ll not come back. Hanne is a British Swede who longs for the 95% humidity and hawker centre food of her childhood. Her stories are fed by environmental science topics, moss-covered rocks masquerading as trolls and what-if scenarios. Her words can be found lurking in various web-nooks and print anthologies.

We arrive at 9AM, and it’s already a sticky, sweltering summer morning. The cars are lining up as visitors come early to pick their berries, avoiding the height of the sun. This year, the blueberries are plump and ample, pleasing the folks who come here for their fill. Mothers, fathers, and children make their way through the narrow dirt rows, and babies are lulled to sleep by the subtle rocking of their strollers rolling along over the uneven dirt below. We see grandparents, too, wiping off their sweaty brows, wrangling their grandchildren, keeping them on task. This time, we come to pick berries for my mother’s blueberry pie, but really, we are here for the large old weeping willow tree on the far edge of the field. He brought me here a few weeks ago, picking our first berries of the season, later enjoying another sort of sweetness high up in the tree. He keeps pulling at me, desperate to get through the field to reach our tree, until I finally pull back and say, “Stop!”. “Let’s first pick some berries for our feast, just like last time,” I say “Oh, come on, before it gets too hot,” he says, pleading. “But what would my mother say if I come home without berries?” I innocently ask. He rolls his eyes and lets out an exaggerated sigh. But moments later, we are stooped down collecting berries for my pail, the same pail I used before. Soon berries are falling out and over the top. And so, he leans in and whispers, “Are you about done?”. I smile, nodding my head, and we begin a walk that is more like a dance toward our private leafy destination. He looks over his shoulder, checking three, maybe four times, until he is sure no one is watching. He pushes on my bottom as he lifts me up to the tree’s first landing, and then I pull him up to meet me. We climb up two landings more until we are surrounded and hidden by the thick green feathery canopy hanging all around the willow tree. I reach into the pail for a taste of berry, recreating what now feels like a dream, but he reaches in for a different flavor, in a different place. “Hey, what’s the rush?” I complain, pulling his hand away. “I thought we were here for the forbidden fruit?” he says with a wink. “But that’s not how I remember it,” I say. I remember a sweet yet tart and juicy burst in my mouth that started with berries and later filled with his lips and tongue. I remember we ate half a pailful before I blossomed, his fingers still purple when he pulled them out, ready to harvest my innocence. But this time, his mouth is dry and his fingers pale, rushing in to take what is already his; the forbidden fruit I gave away.